Zepirz again took the lead, through an arch behind the thrones. Sparkles from the Rays still danced along the changelings’ essences, concerning Vantra, but she could not investigate the strangeness. They needed to flee through another vine doorway before those chasing them arrived.
The yondaii brushed the flowers against the stems and they pulled back, revealing another well-lit passage, roots threaded through the walls, unmoving. The sight unnerved her; what if they snatched one of her companions? Could she react fast enough to stop them?
Navosh did not appear concerned, and unease settled within her as the vines closed. Dire enemies sought to impede and harm them. Why remain nonchalant?
They did not travel far before the corridor switched to gravelly ground, and the dirt grew moist, the air heavy. Kenosera and Navosh swiped at sweat, while Zepirz and Ayara panted to relieve the heat. Poor Yut-ta; as he had skin on his upper half and fur on his lower, he sweated and panted and looked altogether miserable.
The rush of fast-moving water echoed down the way, the sound becoming loud enough, she did not think she would hear the evaki and his companions behind them. She looked at the shard—still a dull crimson—and glanced over her shoulder, but noticed no one else.
The passage ended in a gigantic tunnel with a river racing down its center in the opposite direction they tread. Torches lined a trampled path that hugged the rock face, the light producing stray reflections in the waves. Boulders poked out from it, and the strike of water against them produced an echoing roar.
The River Passage was just that—a river passage, unremarkable but for one thing. Navosh must have realized something was amiss too, because his attention remained on the flow, his fists shaking.
Darkness rolled with the waves, the same corruption that infused the rain in Selaserat. Any thirsty plant that drank from the river would absorb it, which explained the general sense of foulness in the forest surrounding the citadel. Was that how the nastiness spread? If it had infiltrated water sources for as long as Kjiven had been Strans, maybe that was why the Labyrinth overran other parts of the forest, like the Elfine Highlands. Maybe that was why the bendebares wilted, not so much from fallen yondaii as from the corruption they allowed to creep into their sacred space.
Clearing the darkness from Greenglimmer was going to be a monumental task. And Hrivasine wanted it to happen, had convinced Kjiven to follow his plan. But why?
Cries came from behind. The enemy! She whirled, then froze. The evaki and their companions had caught up, but vines twisted around them, holding them off the ground as they struggled. Fists beat the tendrils, spears sank into the stems, but they did not let go. Marks flared and smoke wafted from them; the beings grabbed at their chests, but tendrils wrapped around their hands and kept them from touching.
The vines had turned on the enemy? If they eradicated the blessing, would that not alert Kjiven? He had cut off Zepirz’s staff, after all.
They will not menace us.
She spun at Navosh’s heated mind voice. Zepirz kept glancing back, concerned, but the ex-deity cast them one scathing glare, raised an eyebrow at her, and that ended his interest. Something about his look, the reaction . . . was he simply annoyed that so many who claimed to follow him swore loyalty to a fake? Or was something else bothering him?
The ceiling sloped down, the tunnel narrowed, and they reached a divergent path just before the river filled the entire width. The new corridor was rectangular, with faded lines carved into the walls and ceiling to mimic bricks. Moss coated the floor, and water filled each footprint before the spongy stuff rebounded. Roots wove in and out of the stone, burgundy lines flashing along them.
Another vine door blocked their way, but it receded before they reached it, and rushed back into place as soon as Vantra passed through. Was Navosh controlling the doorways now? She wanted to ask, but excited yells reverberated down the tunnel. Zepirz clacked his beak and slipped into a darker doorway on the left, the nearest place to hide. They hustled up an incline and headed around the corner; beings raced past, their rapid talk loud, then soft, then silence returned.
“We are near the Vine Sanctum,” the yondaii whispered as another rush down the previous passage grew louder. Navosh lifted his lip at the statement, but did not interrupt. “It is Kjiven’s seat. It is where we met him to receive his blessings upon arriving at the ruin. There will be many warriors and yondaii there to protect him. Priestess Navonne will be at his side.”
The absurdity struck her. If so many protected Kjiven, what could they do beyond spying on the false deity? They numbered six, and she doubted that the false deity sat alone, waiting to see the outcome of the battle with the Light-blessed. He had ghostly protectors who understood Touch and magic, and they could make quick work of her companions.
Once they saw what they could see, she would pray to Katta and get more help. Her shoulders drooped. More help from where? Not the Greenglimmer council, as Anmidorakj led that. Would the neighboring districts see a false Strans as a threat? Would the whole of Elfiniti?
I know you doubt. Navosh’s voice, soft and serene, filled her thoughts, providing a mental hug. It is natural; our situation is dire. But if Zepirz distrusts Kjiven, so do others. His example will lead them from the enemy. That will make him vulnerable. Once I regain the mantle, none will harm any of you.
She trusted that he would protect them once he recovered his power. She did not trust that they could defend him until that happened.
The roots in the walls moved. Burgundy sparks raced down them, in time to the thumps of racing paws. They could not go back; more beings traversed that tunnel. Zepirz clacked his beak, then streaked to another passage, a vertical fissure that did not have a torch to light the way. Vines shot over the opening, closing it to any wandering eyes.
She threw up a shield as corruption slid over them, eager to grab the living. Roots struck again and again, their efforts breaking the walls apart and widening the narrow way. She concentrated on creating layers to protect the others in case her outer one broke. A hand grasped her wrist—Kenosera—and he drew her after them.
Light brightened the edges of her perception, and she looked up; two torches sat on either side of the fracture’s exit, and the roots dwindled in number until the last fizzled and fell, smoking, as the illumination touched it.
They hunched and pressed against the wall as she dropped the shields, not wanting to attract attention. In front of them, floor-to-ceiling panels overlooked a room bathed in an orange glow. Scrolls formed the vertical edges, and wavy, twisted iron bars crisscrossed between them, providing gaps to see through. The panel opposite the fracture was missing, but the rest spanned, undamaged, around the inner edge of the walkway. Shadows bathed most of the ring, and Vantra did not think it a good idea to enter them.
Zepirz motioned to them, and they leaned closer. “This is the Vine Sanctum,” he said in a voice lower than a whisper. “Kjiven should be below.” He nodded at the gap. “This walkway has always been sequestered. I don’t know when the panel fell away.”
His worry infected the rest of them, except for the ex-deity.
“Let us look, shall we?” Navosh gripped his arm, then plastered himself against the bumpy floor and inched towards the nearest panel. Vantra glanced at Kenosera and Yut-ta, and they did the same. She thinned her essence to a bare wisp, fear trickling through her at the thought of being seen, then floated into place next to them.
The room was carved from native limestone, vines and roots tangled together and weaving in and out of the stone. Thicker, dripping foliage hung from the ceiling, giving the air a heavy, moist feel. A water feature sat between the thick outer ring of sandy soil and an inner circle of polished rock, fed by two corrupted waterfalls pouring from eroded holes in the back of the room. A walkway ran from the ring to a raised dais in the center, paved with tiles containing a deep-gouged design. Steps led to a vine-and-root throne, tapestries on each side; one had a stark black-line tree, the other a brilliant spark of Light.
Forest dwellers milled around the ring, antsy, rubbing hands along their spears, staring at dark doorways. Some had bark protecting arms and legs, some had heavy cloth. A few evaki had a mix of metal armor and leather, and they fidgeted more than the rest. They kept their distance from mercenaries with Guard tanks, who looked bored rather than expectant.
Standing at the bottom of the dais were rufang, each covered in Kjiven’s marks. They wore shell-decorated headdresses with three multicolored feathers that bent over the tops of their heads. Strings with more shells hung from the band, the bits clacking together when they moved. A cloth belt adorned their waist, with a front panel painted with the same crude tree as the tapestry.
One stood a step higher on the dais, so coated in symbols, he glowed a dark green. Instead of a wooden staff, he held a corrupted root; a menacing burgundy line raced around the object, and she shuddered. How could he hold such a thing so casually?
Lounging in an ornate dining chair on the left-hand tier below the throne was an elfine ghost. He had slicked, dark brown hair that fell to his shoulders, a mustache and goatee trimmed to perfection, and a vexed expression that wrinkled his thin nose and larger-than-normal eyes. He wore a blue and brown robe, unbelted, revealing a luscious, shimmery white shirt, fitted slacks, and shiny brown leather loafers—an oddly modern outfit for an ancient ghost. Dangling from limp fingers curved over the armrest was a tangle of twigs that looked like a headdress.
To his side stood a hooded figure in a black robe with gold accents, head bowed, hands folded across the chest and hidden in the sleeves, and two mercenaries who looked to have as much fun as the stone surrounding them. They did not react as the woman who confronted Zepirz leaned over to them from the top step, fingers drumming on hips, snapping something in punchy, echoey bites.
Random other ghosts stood on the tiers, wearing a variety of Talin religious attire, arms folded, heads cocked, frowns deep.
In the midst of them, hunched over on the throne, sat an elfine ghost with twigs tangled in his dusky hair, his features, from his profile to his skin tone, fluctuating. His nose and eyes sank into his essence while a barky texture ran over his face, then reappeared. Sandy gold with a gravelly look coated his arms before blending into the bark, which gave way to a milder brown with a ruddy undertone that deepened to a foresty green. His hands hung between his legs, his fingers changing from sharp ends to rounded stubs. A staff made from a root leaned against an armrest, and burgundy raced across it in sync with his changes.
And he wore a sleeveless Light robe.
The blare of white and gold against the darkness, so stark, so raw, was a cry for help. Vantra bet that explained the fluctuations, too; he no longer wanted the mantle.
And the mantle no longer wanted him.
The beings flinched and looked at the progressively louder fight between the priestess and the elfine in the chair, all but for Kjiven. His gaze drifted randomly, then he raised his head, and she swore he stared at her. She froze, keeping her essence immobile, worried she had outed them.
He dropped his gaze.
Everyone scooted back and kept low as they pressed against the wall.
“I think Kjiven saw me,” she fretted.
“Inevitable, I think,” Navosh whispered. “He is waiting for us, and you contain the light he craves.”
“Is that why he’s wearing Light robes?” Yut-ta asked, offended.
“It’s his call for help,” Vantra said.
Navosh nodded in agreement while the others knit their brows, skeptical. “His grasp slips, but he is not ready to relinquish.”
“Is that why his skin keeps changing?” Kenosera asked.
“I believe so, but he also never understood the mantle well enough to control the power.”
“Hrivasine is the perfect one,” Zepirz muttered. “Splendid glory hiding rot.”
“Black robe is the evil one,” Ayara said. “He has no name.”
“How strong is Navonne in Touch?” Vantra asked. “She doesn’t seem to care she’s yelling at Hrivasine, and he’s a powerful whizan.”
“She does not have the raw energy Hrivasine does, but she is more effective,” Zepirz admitted.
“She is devious.” Ayara narrowed their eyes. “She acts as if she is drained, then attacks when her opponent no longer believes her a threat. She has done so many times to Hrivasine supporters who angered her. They hate her for it.”
“And the others?” Navosh asked.
“The rufang of honor is Mojek.” Zepirz deflated, his eyes distant. “He is beyond my reach. I see nothing of him in the shell.”
Navosh raised an eyebrow. “Do not underestimate your voice.”
“The ghosts in robes are councilors. I do not see Anmidorakj or her council. The false one must have sent them to face the Light-blessed.”
“He kept his inner circle close, then,” Navosh murmured, then smiled, content. “Did you notice Lorgan?”
Vantra stiffened. Lorgan? The divine patted her arm, amused.
“He is well-hidden, waiting for an opportunity. We shall give him one.” Navosh’s lips twitched, and his gaze shifted to the waterfalls. “There is so much wrong, but not in the ways I expected. I believe I can convince Kjiven to relinquish the mantle, but his darker allies will have time to react.” He jumped up. “Let’s go.”
Zepirz gasped, reached for him, but he hopped to the debris and slid down. Everyone else looked at Vantra—what did they expect her to do? Call him back? Too late for that!
The yondaii shoved himself to his paws and took after him. The rest of them exchanged worried looks then followed. Since Navosh broke their cover, they might as well do what they could to support and protect him, though Vantra worried how effective they would be.
